A Storm to Crack the Sky
by Visible Monsters
Summary: AU where Malcolm dies just a couple years after Bethany and Carver are born. With no stable means of support, Leandra takes her children to Kirkwall to inherit the estate and grow up as Amells. [*rating may change eventually*]
1. Prologue

**The Amell Estate, Kirkwall, 9:18 Dragon**

There's only two rough knocks at the door before it's kicked open, the locks breaking from the sheer force of it.

"Mistress Amell!" Melara cries in warning, before two large templars push the young elven woman aside as they step into the foyer. The two middle Hawke children scamper onto the balcony, glaring at the threat standing in their doorway.

Carver throws a paperweight at the taller templar's helmet and it collides with a resounding clamor before the second templar throws him kicking and flailing over his shoulder. Rayna gets a few punches in before the same templar pushes the two siblings into a bedroom and barricades it by pushing a small armoire in front.

Their shouts and kicks at the heavy door remain unnoticed as the templars delve farther into the estate, looking for their target.

"No..." a choked sob leaves Leandra's lips and her eyes widen in horror when the templars barge into the nursery. "Please!" She clutches her youngest child to her chest. "No!" Bethany clings unblinkingly to her mother with no notion of the events surrounding her.

Bethany doesn't cry when she's pried from her mother's arms, only stares back at Leandra with her big hazel eyes, looking over the shoulder of the templar as he carries her out the door with a seemingly uncharacteristic touch of gentleness.

Leandra falls to her knees, despairing sobs wracking her body as she loses her second child to the Circle.

She'd never had to the opportunity to ask Revka how much it could hurt.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

**Hightown, Kirkwall, 9:19 Dragon**

Leandra Hawke always notices the stares her family receives on the way home from the Chantry service every week. She firmly clutches one of Rayna's hands in her right, and one of Carver's in her left. Her only remaining children not cursed with magic and never far out of her sight. Rayna attempts to slip from her mother's grasp as they near the Viscount's Keep, but Leandra tightens her hold as she navigates through the Sunday crowd of nobles to get home.

"_Lady Amell_," they always nod at her when she passes, as if her husband had never existed.

"_Lady Amell_," the eligible noblemen kiss her hand, as if to see how heavy her rings weigh on her small fingers.

"_Lady Amell_," the women she knows from childhood kiss her cheek, as if to check if her icy demeanor since her return to the city has defrosted at all in the years she's been back.

"Why do they call you 'Amell?'" Rayna wants to know, as soon as they arrive at the estate. She squirms in her new dress, tugging at the long sleeves. Leandra reaches over to tuck her daughter's stray wisps of hair behind her ear, but Rayna twists away with impatience, waiting for an answer.

"Why can't we visit Bethany?" Carver demands loudly, clenching his fists and close to tantrum, though he's getting too old for such behavior.

Leandra Hawke has no satisfactory answers for her remaining children, and the way their defiant lyrium-blue eyes shine and black hair falls haphazardly in their eyes reminds her of _him_ so acutely that she's afraid if she opens her mouth only a sob will come out.

"It's time for lunch, pups," Melara swiftly intervenes, ushering the two into the kitchens as Leandra's heart clenches at the use of the thoroughly Ferelden petname.

Like a true born and bred noble, she waits until she's behind her own closed chamber doors to release her tears.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

**The Viscount's Keep, Kirkwall, 9:26 Dragon**

Leandra watches as another young noble approaches Rayna. She recognizes him immediately. The first-born son of the Markhams, a wealthy family claiming distant lineage to the VanMarkham dynasty in Nevarra. He can't be more than twenty, just two or three years older than Rayna. A good match then, if a bit pompous for her tastes.

Although, Leandra would gladly weather weekly tea with the Markhams if it could give Rayna some stability and happiness. Maker knows she needs it. And if the pair gave her a few grandchildren, all the better.

For a foolish moment, Leandra thinks her daughter's agreed to a dance when the Markham heir's hand reaches out to grasp Rayna extremely low on her waist.

In half a heartbeat, Rayna stomps on his right foot and has the young man's wrist in a painfully twisted grip. He lets out a strangled yelp but Leandra's quick little rogue has already released him by the time others have turned to see the commotion.

The Markham boy storms away, red-faced and in a huff. Rayna stays put, looking as passive as ever, except for that self-satisfied smirk only Leandra recognizes. Carver approaching his older sister with a barely-concealed grin tells her she isn't the only one who's seen what's just transpired.

One half of her, the Amell part, sighs in a way Leandra associates with her own mother, as if to say, _another suitor tossed aside without regard for the consequences._

The Hawke part, sounding very much like Malcolm in her head, _whispers that's my girl_.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x**

**The Amell Estate, Kirkwall, 9:23 Dragon**

Leandra's heart pounds spastically as she paces in front of the fire in the foyer of the estate.

_She's too young for this, far too young- Maker, please..._

_Mature for her age, yes, and very cunning. But also stubborn and secretive and just as beautiful, and not yet fifteen. Too young..._

The chiming of the Chantry bell startles her, reminding her that it's midnight and her daughter is not in her bed.

She takes a few steps towards the entrance and stops, as if torn between running around the streets of Hightown, raising a racket in search of her little girl, or just falling into the armchair near the fire and crying.

Just then, the locks on the door rattle and she hears the door creak in protest to being pushed open very slowly.

Even in the incredibly dim entryway lit by a single candle, Leandra can see Rayna's disheveled hair, clothed in a man's tunic and breeches that are oversized, awry, and even torn in some places.

"Where have you been?!" Leandra demands, hands on her hips even through her relief that her daughter appears unharmed. She watches Rayna visibly flinch and jump in shock, her electric blue eyes wide as she makes eye contact with her mother.

"Mother... I... It's not-" Rayna stammers guiltily, face paling immediately.

"What are you doing in those clothes?" Leandra adds sharply, scrutinizing her.

Suddenly, Rayna's face then floods with color, dark red with abashed embarrassment.

"Mother... where do you think I was?" she asks, almost inaudibly. "Who do you think I am?"

"You tell me, Rayna," Leandra crosses her arms and avoids the eyes Rayna received from Malcolm, not honestly wanting to hear the truth of her daughter's nightly escapades.

"These are Carver's old clothes," Rayna finally beings to explain. Leandra's eyes finally meet her daughter's again, the weight of relief in her chest replaced by confusion.

"But why-"

"I've been practicing fighting with Genevieve across the road. I found Father's old daggers in one of the cellar rooms." _Of course_, Leandra thinks, _the mysterious duBlancs from Orlais_. "I think her mother is a bard," Rayna adds conspiratorially, as if they can hear her.

"I'm sorry, love; I didn't know what to think," Leandra apologizes, stepping closer to brush the hair from Rayna's eyes. "There's criminals that come out at night, even just outside the estate. If something were to happen to you..."

"They don't see me," Rayna assures her. Leandra sighs.

"I don't want you doing this anymore," Leandra commands firmly.

"But Mother-" Rayna protests.

"At night," Leandra finishes decisively, causing Rayna's face to light up hopefully. "I'll have none of this sneaking about. You can practice in the garden during the day, and maybe- maybe I'll see about you having lessons with Carver."

It's what Malcolm would have wanted.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

**The Outskirts of Highever, Ferelden, 9:9 Dragon**

Malcolm rubs his wife's heavily pregnant middle as if it's a mummer's crystal ball.

"Here I thought you a mage, not a fortune teller."

"Shhh... he hushes her playfully, grinning as he leans over to press his ear to her belly. "I need to concentrate." She stifles a laugh and rolls her eyes as he hums under his breath. "Yes. Just as I suspected. There's a big storm brewing in there," he finally announces, matter-of-factly. "A storm to crack the sky and wreck ships." Leandra's lips purse at his words.

"Storms can help the land thrive as well," she adds, scolding her husband. "They're not always so destructive."

"Right you are, as always, my dear," Malcolm teases. "Shall we name her Raindrop, in that case?" he questions, kissing her rounded stomach.

"Her?" Leandra raises her eyebrows at him. He shrugs. "He's a boy, love, I'm sure of it," she insists stubbornly.

"We'll find out soon enough, won't we?" he compromises, strong hand still resting on her abdomen. Leandra places her hand atop his and squeezes lightly. "We'll find out as soon as this little storm decides to come."


	2. Na Via Lerno Victoria

[A/N: thanks to Bubble14 for the review! Any feedback [esp. about character perspective/plot pacing] are appreciated!]

**The Gallows, Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon**

Karl Thekla has been made Tranquil.

The rumor is confirmed by various mages around the Gallows by nightfall, in whispers floating around the library as well as hushed mutters during supper.

Renley himself hears it by way of the passing chuckle of one non-discreet templar to another in the corridor outside his quarters.

He can't help but send a glare their way as he exits his room. This is just moments after he hides incriminating notes [fake letters to fake people, but dangerous all the same] in the pocket of an old set of robes at the very back of his dresser. When the time is right, he will scatter them in obvious hiding places- under his mattress, in his desk- but for now they must remain out of sight of the templars at risk of exposing his plans.

They must have thought it a sweet victory, how Karl smashed a handful of phylacteries before they managed to subdue him. Just to have a valid reason to make him Tranquil. It's rumored that the Knight-Commander herself performed the ritual.

Being trapped in the Gallows with no hope of escape always seems to fuel gossip, but just this once, Renley believes the tales.

"Mind your eyes, mage," the shorter templar growls, eyes narrowing through the slit of his helmet. Renley grits his teeth but continues on his way.

On the morrow, the templars would begin to take inventory of the phylacteries, and it wouldn't be long before they realized whose phylacteries have been destroyed, purposely or not.

It would take them no more than a day to figure it out, and then they would retake blood from the mages with missing phylacteries. One of them being Renley himself. He grimaces at the thought of his blood being drained.

He'd been eight when they'd taken him from his family and brought him to the Gallows. He hadn't cried so much as he had whined. He'd never made templars angry nearly so much as he had a talent for irritating them.

He'd learned who not to sass at the age of twelve after being cuffed by Ser Alrik; he learned who was easily persuaded at seventeen when he'd given Ser Liana some of his time after her shift.

He learned which templars didn't have the stomach to lay a hand on the mages and which had the audacity to enjoy finding mages out of bed after hours to ask certain favors in exchange for their silence. He also knew a few who didn't ask permission at all and kept their helmets on to hide their identity while they did so.

He learned to keep his mouth [mostly] shut and eyes [always] open at twenty when he realized a select few mages were being turned Tranquil even though their Harrowings had passed long ago, Karl being only the most recent example.

_Bethany. He must warn Bethany._

He doesn't have as much time as he'd have liked, but he'll have to make do.

He takes stock of his surroundings as he passes through the Gallows, memorizing the details of his home for the past decade or so as if seeing them for the last time. He passes the tapestry behind which he'd nearly soiled himself when he'd been caught with Sarra during their first time together. She'd nearly started crying in relief when they realized it was just another mage couple looking for comfort for the night and not the templars. He doesn't like to think about what they would have done to Sarra or himself had they been caught. He'd been young. He's learned to be more careful since then.

He nods at a few colleagues as he crosses the library, scanning the aisles deliberately.

"Renley!" Everett disrupts his quest with a harsh whisper. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Renley asks innocently, ignoring the roll of the elven mage's dark eyes.

"Stop playing games, Renley. You know this is serious."

"It's true as far as I know," he shrugs, appearing indifferent to his friend. "You've noticed how agitated they seem? There's not as many on patrol as there usually is. I'd wager they're questioning him right now."

"Beating him senseless, more like," the elven mage snorts, adjusting his robes sullenly and then scowling. "You're really going through with it after what happened- what's happening to him?"

"Mark my words, I'll be in Antiva by next month," Renley's voice drops seriously. "Perhaps I'll send you a Satinalia card, Ev," he japes, attempting to take the edge off of his answer.

"Good luck to you then. Maker knows you'll need it," Everett adds with an impatient huff.

Renley finds her at the very end of the sections containing books about poultices and slowly makes his way to her, pretending to browse the tomes a bit before he chooses one to flip through. She notices and waits a few moments before approaching him.

"Our phylacteries are gone," he mutters to her, after a templar passes out of earshot.

"You can't know that for sure," Bethany replies in hushed tones, looking over his shoulder at a large tome with feigned interest. "What if he broke the wrong ones?" She bites her lip, frowning.

"Maybe, and maybe not. But this might be the only chance we ever get," he insists, combing a hand through his haphazard black hair. "I'm going to take it. You're coming, aren't you?"

"I... don't know," Bethany replies uncertainly. He frowns, mirroring her expression and searching her eyes. He knows her well enough to know this means he's on his own.

"I can't very well force you to leave with me."

"Where will you go, Renley?" she asks, biting her lip. He shrugs. If he can't pretend he doesn't have his doubts in front of Bethany, he might as well give up before he even starts.

"Rivain? The Anderfels? Ferelden? I couldn't tell you if I knew." She leans in closer to the taller mage when they hear the tell-tale clinking of templar armor nearby.

"How soon?" she mutters under her breath. Renley waits until the noise from the armor fades farther away.

"Tomorrow night, at the latest. I'm only waiting for the right time." She nods, understanding, and he smiles sadly. Bethany abruptly envelops him in a tight embrace.

"I may not see you again. Be careful, please."

"You know me," he jokes, thinking of the day she came to the Circle. Brave-faced and petite. How he had just _known_ as soon as he saw her, he remembered how his little baby sister looked before he was taken, all big watching eyes and tiny nose.

"Not funny," she retorts, with a wry smile. Her hazel eyes are shining when she pulls away, though he knows not to comment on it.

"I'll miss you, too."

She leaves him standing in library, chin held high and eyes [mostly] dry as she exits.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The only company Rayna Hawke keeps at the Rhinehart's nameday luncheon for their youngest daughter, Camille, is the cold comfort of her favorite dagger strapped to her leg and concealed beneath her skirts. Leandra would faint if she knew.

She accepts a dance with Emery Royce only when she is sure Leandra is watching so that she won't get an earful regarding social manners back at the estate.

"You're very different lately, Lady Rayna," he comments as he turns her gracefully in his arms. The way he says her name makes her squirm; his hand on her lower back suddenly feels heavy. "Could it be you've finally given up pining after what's-his-name after all this time? How long's it been? Perhaps a year by now?" Emery grins, charming to anyone looking on yet petulantly ignorant to Rayna. "You could do better than some pirate, don't you agree? I imagine woman like you would need someone with a firmer hand before she were to settle down."

"And that _'someone'_ would be someone such as yourself?" she asks, hiding the poison and seething rage in her tone beneath the innocence of the question. His bright green eyes rake down over her form when they part and meet again on the dance floor. His grin bares his nearly perfect teeth.

How she'd enjoy knocking them out of his highborn mouth.

"But of course," he continues, hand at her back pressing her even closer to him. She resists the urge to shudder. "Better than some Nevarran, anyhow," he adds with a laugh. "Tell me, is it true what they say about Nevarrans?" She only smiles in response, but he's too unaware to sense the danger in it. He opens his mouth to finish the thought, but she interrupts.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen this afternoon," she begins, low and through gritted teeth as they continue to dance. He smirks and presses his body suggestively against hers, placing a bit more pressure on the hand on his lower back as he mistakes her tone for sultry. "The dance will end in ten seconds, at which point you will kindly release me, bow, apologize for your tongue, and never speak to me again." She enjoys watching his self-satisfied expression crumble underneath her cold glare. His mouth opens in protest, eyebrows gathering in fury. "Otherwise you'll learn that the only thing you'll ever see hiding beneath my skirts is the dagger I'll use to slit your throat for even mentioning Trevian."

The music ends and he releases Rayna as if burned.

He hesitates one second before bowing low at the waist to hide his flushed face and muttering, "My sincerest apologies, my lady," before leaving the salon.

She watches him exit with disgust before she resets her expression to indifference and leaves the party by the opposite doors.

_Rayna Hawke: humiliator of suitors since 9:24 Dragon_, she thinks to herself bitterly.

Father would be proud, according to mother.

She only feels cold.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

"Forget it," Bartrand snorts. "Spoiled nobles... looking for glory..." he mutters under his breath.

"I'm more experienced than you presume," Rayna retorts calmly, raising an eyebrow at his hushed ramblings.

"And what of you, whelp?" he scoffs in Carver's general direction. "Got a city guard uniform and a sword and shield to match and think you're suddenly a knight? Don't waste my time," he stalks off without waiting for a retort from either sibling.

"What a right sodding prick," Carver scowls, glancing at Rayna. "Now what do we do?"

"We'll have to prove ourselves somehow, I suppose," she sighs, rubbing her temples with her hand.

"And if not?"

"And if not, you stay with the guard and I deal with avoiding Mother's marriage arrangements," her expression distorts in distaste. "I'll not be married off like some prize goat before I have my say in it. I hate you, by the way," she adds, leading them back in the direction of the estate.

"It's not my fault I had guard duty," he replies defensively, not sounding regretful at all. "I take it the banquet didn't go well?"

"Emery Royce is a blighted pig who should watch his mouth more carefully," she states sourly. "Camille Rhinehart asked after you."

"Oh? Did she now?" he questions, indifferently. Rayna glances at him, but he doesn't change his expression.

"You fancy her!" Rayna exclaims accusingly at her little brother as they pass through Hightown.

"What? I do not fancy-"

Rayna opens her mouth to argue but is interrupted by a youth ramming into her shoulder and snatching her coin purse.

"Hey!" The two turn to chase the thief in time to see a bolt fly and pin him to the wall, followed by a dwarf delivering a punch to his jaw before letting him go. He notices the two Hawkes watching him and gives a roguish smile before tossing the purse their way. Rayna nods her head in thanks.

"Varric Tethras, at your service," he announces by way of introduction, worrying a bolt from his crossbow between his fingers. "I take it you haven't had luck in making my brother see reason yet?"

"You're Bartrand's brother?" Rayna raises an eyebrow skeptically. "You hardly seem the type."

"I'll take that as a compliment, serah!" Varric agrees with a laugh.

"Bartrand made it perfectly clear that we're rubbish. He thinks we're some pampered nobles that can't handle ourselves," Carver asserts, pride obviously ruffled in the past thirty minutes.

"And you're giving up already? The problem is Bartrand doesn't know what we need for this expedition to succeed," Varric shakes his head, still twirling the bolt between his fingers.

"And what would that be?" Rayna almost hesitates to wonder.

"What we need is a partner. And some Deep Roads maps," Varric adds, shrugging.

"Where would we even find maps like those?" Rayna interrupts.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I might know where to find them."

"If you know where you can find the maps, what do you need us for, besides the coin?" Rayna asks, a little wary. "You don't even know us."

"I know that for a couple of nobles, the Hawkes are not afraid to get their hands dirty," Varric points out. "Come by the Hanged Man later. We'll talk business."

"Mother says that place is filthy," Rayna Hawke informs him, grinning and holding out her hand for him to shake. "We'll be there, of course."

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

"This is the place, Hawke," Varric assures her, tapping gingerly at the doorpost with narrowed eyes as if afraid the entire structure will collapse if he knocks too hard. "I think you'd do a better job convincing him by yourself than if we all barged in uninvited."

"We'll wait right out here," Carver agrees.

"No point in stalling," she shrugs. They'd spent most of the morning in Lowtown tracking down information about a runaway Grey Warden with Deep Roads maps. Varric's sources hadn't failed them yet.

They'd been met with suspicion and hadn't understood why until they discovered this 'Anders' is also an apostate.

Rayna pauses as she enters the apostate's clinic, mesmerized by the scene unfolding in front of her. She sees mana at work for the first time as he stands over a young boy who regains consciousness before their eyes. She watches gratitude given to the mage by the boy's parents but notes that he takes no compensation.

She hesitates to speak. She's never known a mage outside her own family, much less an apostate.

He leans against a post as if to catch his breath when the boy and his family leave.

"Are you Anders, the Grey Warden?" she asks, clearing her throat to announce her presence as she approaches him. He jumps, glancing about wildly like a cornered cat before realizing there's no threat.

"That's a rather astute assumption," the mage replies, regaining his composure. He crosses his arms as he studies Rayna with copper colored eyes. "Did they send you? Is that how you know? You can tell them I'm not returning unless they're giving my cat back," he jokes dryly.

"The Wardens didn't send me."

"Then who are you? You don't look as if you need healing," he sweeps his gaze over her clinically to double check.

"Rayna Hawke. Or Amell. Whichever. I didn't mean to... interrupt anything. I'm planning an expedition into the Deep Roads and I've heard you might have maps." His mouth twitches, a motion she recognizes as instinctive denial. "I can pay you for them."

"Thought I was done with the blighted Deep Roads," he mutters with a shake of his head. "I don't want payment. Although, a favor for a favor..."

"Name the favor first," Rayna challenges, her jaw stubbornly set.

"You said you were an Amell? I knew an Amell, back in Ferelden," Anders states, abruptly changing the subject, a fond expression temporarily crossing his features. "My Commander when I was a Warden, actually. Knew her in the Circle, before that. Well... sort of."

"I have family in the Gallows," Rayna offers, thankful for the distraction and opportunity to get on the mage's good side.

"Oh? Do they ever write to you about how they came this close to being made tranquil for a slip of the tongue? What about what happens when a lone mage is caught about after curfew?" he asks, a suspicious edge returning to his voice. He turns to straighten up a nearby table, organizing various vials.

"No. Of course not. What do you mean by that?" Rayna frowns, disliking the conversation's detour. "You haven't yet told me what the favor is."

The mage pauses what he's doing to look at her, hard eyes slightly narrowed as he studies her expression unblinkingly.

She shifts uncomfortably.

"I've changed my mind. Perhaps you're not fit to this task after all," Anders states, shaking his head.

"No!" she interrupts, cursing herself for sounding desperate. "I need those maps."

"You should leave," he suggests, gently but firmly pushing her towards the doors.

"Wait. I will tell the templars about you," she threatens, a last resort weakly disguised as a threat.

"You will not," he growls, in a voice almost not his own, his grip turning solid and tightening around her arm.

"Then you will let me help you in exchange for the maps," she retorts, spinning around to face him. He sighs, letting go of her and then rubbing his forehead in resignation. "Name your price."

"My price? What if I asked for the Knight-Commander's head?"

"Anything," she agrees, determination in her sharp gaze. In the back of her mind, she hopes he doesn't call her bluff.

"Meet me at the Chantry tonight. You're going to help me free my friend."

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

He's overheard that the templar guard would be considerably lessened this night due to an escape plot turned into an apostate capture attempt using Karl as bait in the Chantry.

All day, the Circle has been abuzz with rumors of who this apostate could be. A Ferelden refugee? Starkhaven runaway? A student or perhaps an old lover of Karl's?

Renley doesn't care.

His fingers twitch with anxiety throughout the meal he can hardly bring himself to touch.

He sees Bethany shoot him knowing glances with her lips pursed, silently urging him not to go through with it from where she sits across the dining hall.

If he is caught, he'll surely suffer the same fate as Karl.

He does not intend to return alive, if at all.

All throughout the evening, he waits for the signal, returning to the same corridor on the lower level until he's almost mad with impatience.

Finally, after a few hours of silent agonizing, one of the elven kitchen maids who sneaks notes out for him approaches him in the corridor.

"Now," she mutters, and their hands touch briefly as he presses silvers into her palm in exchange for a small square of vellum. He trusts her only because she has a brother who was made Tranquil just a few years ago.

Renley ups his gait to a brisk walk and nearly collides with a small group of templars.

"Bet they have 'im in the dungeon by morning," she says, eyeing Renley with a sneer. "I'd wager they get his accomplices, too."

He has the awful feeling that the statement is directed purposely towards him, meaning a Tranquil Karl has already named him an accomplice.

_And possibly Bethany._

He pushes the thought from his mind; he'd been sure to emphasize her innocence in the false letters he'd earlier hidden around his room.

But if he's a suspect, the templars would already be checking for his phylactery in order to confront him.

When the templars pass from sight, Renley swiftly ducks behind a tapestry to study the paper, squinting in the dim light of the evening. The sheet is so small that it takes him a few extra moments to realize it's a map, with his escape route beginning in the corridor near the Harrowing chamber.

He finds himself giving thanks to the Maker [for the first time in a long time] that Karl hadn't yet received the same map. Perhaps he wouldn't have received the same map at all, if the Underground knew multiple ways into the Gallows.

Renley hears a mage's screams echoing from the Harrowing Chamber before he approaches the corridor. He cringes; it sounds like a young girl. He peeks around the corner, cursing the two templars standing guard just outside the doors.

His escape lies in the crevice boasting a bust of the first Knight Commander of Kirkwall past the chamber doors. Just his luck that a Harrowing is still taking place on this night.

He clenches and unclenches his fists in indecision.

He could attempt to freeze them. Or stun them. All it would take is some proper aim and concentration.

Unless, of course, they have already protected themselves from magic in the ways templars do.

Renley swears under his breath.

Just then, a monstrous scream emanates from the Harrowing Chamber and the two guards are called inside to help subdue the young mage.

Renley bolts down the hall on instinct as soon as the tall doors seal the chamber shut once again.

Slipping into the crevice behind the bust, Renley palms the wall with sweaty hands, wondering if there's an incantation he needs to say, or maybe a magical barrier preventing his escape.

He taps his foot impatiently, frowning at the wall before noticing the hollow sound under his boots. Hurriedly crouching down and trailing his fingertips along the tiles he discovers the nearly invisible trap door and pries it open. A draft of air hits his face from the pitch black square in the ground. Feeling a flimsy ladder in the darkness, he doesn't hesitate before lowering himself into the hold and securing the trapdoor above him. He quickly descends into the darkness down the rickety ladder.

Just as his arms begin to ache, a ladder rung snaps under his foot, causing him to smack his face on the wall and lose his grasp. He tumbles backward into the black air, his heart about to explode with despair that he'd been so close to freedom yet failed because of a poorly timed and literal misstep.

His back hits the ground with a thump, and a half-mad hysterical laugh erupts from his lips as he realizes he had not been but three feet from the ground when the ladder broke. _The Maker does have a sense of humor._

It's what his father used to tell him, anyhow.

He shivers, the draft stronger in this damp, dark area. He feels along the walls blindly until he finds a corridor, using the wall to lead him. As he progresses, he sees a dimly lit torch at the far end of the corridor and runs towards it.

He digs the square of vellum from his robe pockets, reading the words '_Follow the right corridor'_ scribbled on the back. He almost misses the additional note underneath and squints to make out the words in the dying light. _Na via lerno victoria_, he reads, as the torch extinguishes itself.

He allows the right-hand-side wall to lead him as he repeats the phrase in his mind. If there is a fork in the corridor at some point, he doesn't notice.

He continues in the dark, hoping this isn't some cruel joke where templars are waiting for him at the exit, sunburst Tranquil brand at the ready.

_Na via lerno victoria_.

After what seems like hours to Renley, he starts to see light creeping into the tunnel he's been following.

At the end, a creaky door is the only thing standing between him and the world outside the Gallows.

His heart hammers at the thought of missing the rowboat waiting for him. Perhaps he's taken too long in the secret tunnel.

He rams the door open with his shoulder, and it throbs as he looks out into the night, hearing the small waves dash themselves on the rocky foundation of the Gallows.

_Na via lerno victoria_.

Looking about, his heart stops when he sees figures in darkened robes nearby, sitting in a small boat.

As he approaches them, one stands and holds his palm out. Renley stops where he's bid.

"What say you, friend?"

"_Na via lerno victoria_," Renley replies clumsily, the phrase sounding strange and flimsy on his tongue. The man smiles, holding out his hand to help Renley into the boat.

"Only the living know victory. Welcome to freedom, my brother."

The boat ride to the docks goes so smoothly without incident that Renley hazards a glance over his shoulder every few minutes as if templars will leap from the water behind the boat to drag him back where he belongs.

The first mouthful of relief Renley breathes on land outside the Circle for the first time in ten years contains the stench of sweat, animals, and filth of too many people living in too small a space.

But it also reeks of freedom.


End file.
